Carrie Bebris - North by Northanger

“I hope his complaint is of a minor nature,” Elizabeth said. “Is the captain an older gentleman?”

“Not at all. He is of middle years, and still quite fine to look upon.”

“Has he a wife?”

“No,” she said sharply.

She brought in the first course — some sort of soup Elizabeth could not quite identify, though Darcy almost became far too personally acquainted with it when the housekeeper’s inattentive serving threatened to pour it into his lap. They were soon left alone again, with only the sounds of the storm for company. Rain pelted the windows, and cracks of thunder punctuated their conversation.

Darcy met Elizabeth’s gaze in the flickering candlelight. “And you thought a visit with Captain Tilney sounded intriguing before we left Bath.”

“This is certainly one of the more interesting places to which you have brought me since our marriage.”

“More interesting than Mr. Dashwood’s town house?”

She smiled. “Mr. Dashwood’s residence had only an antique looking glass to lend it character. Here we have already encountered a housekeeper who cannot keep house but who can materialize out of nowhere, been installed in an apartment last used decades ago by the home’s dead mistress, and played hide-and-seek with a mysterious host who never appears. All this, and we have not yet been within these walls a full hour. Even Mr. Dashwood’s town house cannot compete with the allure of Northanger Abbey. Indeed, I think only the castle of Udolpho holds more charm.”

“Are you wishing we had declined the captain’s invitation?”

“Indeed not! I find this all excessively diverting. But if we discover a black veil anywhere on the premises, you can raise it up.”

She tested the soup and glanced back at Darcy. “Mock turtle?”

“Certainly a mockery of something.”

The soup was followed by successive courses that invited speculation as to whether Captain Tilney’s indisposition was merely an excuse to avoid the fare. Or perhaps a digestive ailment caused by it.

When they finished the meal, the housekeeper escorted them across the hall, through an antechamber, and into a grand drawing room. Pier glasses and other mirrors lining the walls endlessly reflected the light of dozens of candles, surrounding them with hundreds of tiny points of light that somehow did not seem to dispel the darkness.

In a chair near the hearth, partially shielded from their view by a firescreen, sat a figure swathed in bandages. Strips of white cloth wrapped his head and obscured most of his face, exposing only a single eye and his mouth. The coverings extended down his neck, where they met the edge of a blanket draped over his shoulders.

The housekeeper crossed to him. “Sir, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy are here.”

“Excellent.” He rose to his feet. “At last, I am able to bid you welcome.” The blanket slipped off one shoulder of his stout frame, revealing that he had use of only one arm. The other was splinted and strapped to his side. He indicated two chairs on the other side of the fireplace and invited them to sit.

The housekeeper helped him back into his own seat and restored the blanket around his shoulders. She then placed a glass of port in his hand and brought another for Darcy.

“Thank you, Dorothy,” the captain said. “You may go.”

The servant appeared reluctant to leave. She repositioned the firescreen, nearly knocking it over in the process, to provide her master’s damaged face more protection from the heat. When stable once more, the screen cast Captain Tilney’s face in shadow. She then adjusted his blanket again, refilled his glass, and hovered about for another minute or two. Finding no further tasks by which to demonstrate her extraordinary domestic skills, she at last departed.

“Forgive my not greeting you upon your arrival,” Captain Tilney said. “Find it difficult to move about the house these days — deuced injuries, but that is the risk one takes when serving His Majesty, hey?”

Despite the profusion of bandages, he spoke with ease. Elizabeth took this verbal facility as an encouraging sign that their host did not suffer too terribly from pain — unless drink dulled it. His one good eye, however, appeared bright and focused.

“I trust Dorothy saw to your comfort?” their host continued.

“Yes, although—”

“Capital. I intended to join you for dinner, but then discovered myself unequal to it. Feeling well enough now, though, to share a glass with you.” He raised his wine in salute.

“Captain Tilney,” Darcy replied, “if you would prefer to postpone—”

“No, no! Upon my soul, I have been looking forward to meeting you more than you can guess. Deuced poor luck, getting injured during the few short days I returned to my regiment last week.” He muttered something about an accident. “Devil take me, I must look a sight, all bandaged up like this. I hope my appearance does not put either of you ill at ease?”

In such a potentially eerie setting as an ancient, shadow-filled room with a storm raging outside, a shrouded figure with a Cyclopean gaze could well have inspired discomfort in his unprepared guests. And Elizabeth indeed found herself disconcerted by Captain Tilney — but not because he seemed remotely ominous. The Eye, rather than fixing upon one of them with a penetrating stare that sent shudders down the spine, instead shifted rapidly between her and Darcy, never resting on either of them more than a moment. She had difficulty reading the captain’s temperament with his gaze bouncing around so, and his manner — surprisingly animated given the extent of his injuries — contributed to the impression that he was exerting himself overmuch to win their amity. She felt herself and Darcy to be trespassing on the invalid’s recovery by their very presence at Northanger. The poor man ought to be in bed, not forcing himself to fulfill his duties as a host.

“Your kind hospitality toward us cannot but render us perfectly easy,” Elizabeth assured him. “However, we do not wish to begin our acquaintance by fatiguing you, and entertaining strangers can prove tiring for someone in the best of health. Perhaps Mr. Darcy and I should return, or you can visit us at Pemberley, on a future date, when your strength is restored.”

“No, no — I care not a whit about fatigue. I could sprint from here to Gloucester if I chose. I do not wish to defer the pleasure of your society, and as I am injured, you must indulge me. Let us have no more talk of leaving. Do you find your quarters satisfactory? Northanger Abbey is an old house, but not too draughty. Been improved to offer modern comforts.”

The old-fashioned comforts of a fire and adequate time to properly dress for dinner would have constituted sufficient improvements, but given their host’s current state of affliction, Elizabeth no longer considered these matters deserving of mention. “Quite satisfactory,” she said. “We understand our apartment was formerly occupied by your mother?”

“What’s that? Oh, yes — I suppose it was.” He swallowed more port. “It has been so long, you know. When I arrived yesterday, I thought it rather cork-brained to reserve those rooms from use any longer. The nicest rooms in the house, just sitting empty while everyone else is forced to make do with smaller. Why, dear Mother would not want that at all, I am sure. So I said to — to Dorothy, that the first guests to use them should be the son of her dear friend.”

“We are honored,” Darcy said. “But are you aware that some of the drawers and cupboards still hold her effects?”

“Oh, that is nothing. Feel free to use everything in the rooms as your own.”

His nonchalance took Elizabeth aback. Surely the late Mrs. Tilney would not want strangers handling her possessions without her son having sorted through them first. “Perhaps you wish to remove her personal items, at least, to another location?”